Miracle Drug
by badgergirl1999
Summary: Bella is loved by two very different men and struggles to maintain her self identity while being pulled in two very different, very compelling directions. Which direction does she choose?
1. Preface

_**Preface**_

_Of science and the human heart_

_There is no limit_

_There is no failure here sweetheart_

_Just when you quit_

"C'mon, Grace. Think about it: You, me. Seoul would never know what hit it." This was the third time this week he brought this up. He would be moving to Seoul to work for an auto company in a month.

"Jake, can it with the Grace crap." I know this is a losing battle, but it was part of the game we play. Years ago, he dubbed me Grace; I have the uncanny ability to trip over the air. When he wanted something, he'd wheedle, he'd beg, and if he really though he was losing, he'd drop the Grace bomb.

"Babe, you know I'm not gonna stop. It's just too damn much fun." He grinned. He knows I am a sucker for that grin.

He really wants this; he really wants me to go with him to Seoul and every time he asks, he sees the likelihood of me actually going with him dwindle. I see his hope fading; I hate doing this to him.

When you know someone basically since birth, you can tell these things. With Jake, every time I disappoint him, the spark in his eyes slowly begins to fade. This past week, it's reached the smile around his eyes; his smile never reaches his eyes anymore and that makes me feel so fucking guilty.

I just don't know how to stop from being a disappointment to him.

Well, I know how to stop disappointing him. I just don't know that I can.

"Jake, shit. I just don't know that I can up and leave everything and everyone." I can't meet his eyes. He knows what I am talking about. He knows who I am talking about and he hates it. Hell, I hate it.

My love. My life. My drug. My Edward.

My best friend, the man I should, for all intents and purposes, be with, hates the attraction, the pull that Edward Cullen has on me.

Jake, he loves me. I know he loves me; he lets the world know he loves me. He has loved me, this weird, twisted person that I am, since we were toddles wrestling on my dad's fishing boat. He saved me then from falling off that damn boat and keeps on trying to save me from myself.

I love him. I do.

He's just not Edward.

When Jake kisses me, when Jake is in me, there's always something missing. I know that I'm using Jake as a filler…as a place keeper. I know that it isn't fair.

Jakes wants me to go to Seoul with him. He wants us to start over somewhere fresh. He actually proposed, which shocked the hell out of me.

We were lying in bed the other morning, not quite awake, not really asleep, not ready to get up, when he snuck it in.

"Bells, let's get away from this bullshit. You know it is; I know it is. I. Love. You. Forever. Marry me. Move to Seoul. Teach. Write. Live off the fat of the land. I don't care. Just be with me. I don't know what's going to happen, but that's the beauty of it. The only thing that's for certain is that I want to be with you. Period. That's all I really want; it's all I'll ever need."

I'm glad he wasn't facing me when he said it; I don't think I could have handled him seeing the look of shame and horror that crossed my face. He'd have been crushed. Again. I did everything but run to the bathroom where I could escape the censure I so well deserve.

I stood under the hot, cleansing water trying to sort things out in my head. The longer I stood, the closer the walls seemed to encroach upon me. I felt them drawing in; I couldn't breathe; I tried to focus and breathe deeply and all of that shit that people say works. It doesn't, especially when the clusterfuck is this big. Breathing shallowly, I sank to my knees. Perhaps prayer would help me sort this out; perhaps supplication is what I need. It didn't work.

Slowly, I settled on my backside and as the water falling like rain from the showerhead gradually shifted from a purifying scalding to a punishing icy, I did the only thing that I'd been able to do lately. I sat in the shower and cried and thought about it; thought about the choices I've made and the choices I needed to make.

I thought about Jake. I thought about what Jake wanted from me; I thought about what it is that he claimed to need from me. I thought about Edward.

It breaks my heart to hurt Jake the way that I hurt him time and time again.

I know I have to say no to him. I love him; I can't imagine living a life absent from him.

The proposal? Marriage?

I couldn't say yes; I can't say yes.

But I should say yes. I need to say yes. I have to let this mess I'm in end; I have to let _him_ go.

But I can't; I won't.

Because I, Isabella Swan, am hopelessly, dangerously, irrevocably in love with Edward Cullen.

And, well, Edward Cullen sure likes to fuck me.

_Thwap, thwap, thwap._

There's something soothing about the rhythmic pounding of rubber on concrete as my sneakers and I make our morning trek around the neighborhood. I pass houses, families, coffee shops, cars, the skeevy dude who always watches my tits bounce, but pay no attention to it.

_Thwap, thwap, thwap._

This was my time. It was just me, my iPod, my sneakers, and my demons. Simple. Safe, or relatively so considering my propensity to eat turf during my jogs. Ok, I put some Band-Aids in my pocket before I left.

_Thwap, thwap, thwap._

Leaving my apartment a week or so after I tried to transform myself into a fish via immersion I am determined to really think things out. I need to figure out my next step.

_Thwap, thwap, tha-thwap._

It's a Saturday and I'm confronted with all of the weekend warrior joggers who are traversing their way through the streets of the city. I watch the singletons on the prowl for their latest catch, the moms and dads escaping their kids, the career runners; I do whatever I can to avoid thinking about IT.

_Thwap, thwap, thwap._

But escapism only works for so long. Eventually, you either run a circle and end up back where you began or you hit a wall. Today I hit my wall and I hit it hard.

_Thwap, tha-thwap, thwap._

At the end of my run, I grab my usual post-run breakfast of croissant and tea, buy a loaf of day old bread, and amble to the pond in the park near my building.

The ducks and I were about to bond, damn it, and they'll help me begin clearing things up. I sauntered to my favorite bench, began breaking the loaf into bit size pieces, and tried to make myself think about the mess I've made of my life.

Edward.

Jake.

Kids.

Love.

Life.

Family.

Friends.

The images, feelings, thoughts assaulted me at once; I couldn't make sense of them. It swirled around my head making me dizzy. I kept feeding the birds; the rhythmic dropping of the bread into the water was almost as soothing as the rhythmic paces that I kept during my jog and almost held me together.

And then I saw her.

A girl of what I'd assume to be three with coppery ringlets, talking to her father. "Tell me again, daddy. Tell me about you and mamma."

As I listened to him tell the HAPPILY EVER AFTER story, I felt all of the calm I'd worked so hard to achieve this morning recede, replaced by a swell of anger, sadness, anxiety, and fear.

I started to tremble. I tried to push it back. Now is not a good time to lose it, Bella.

Keep your shit in check.

You can do it.

My pep talk didn't work; I felt the traitorous tears begin welling in my eyes. I tried wiping them up.

I want my fucking happily ever after. I thought I had it, once upon a time.

The tears started overtaking my ability to wipe them away. I have to get the fuck out of here. It's gonna be bad, I can tell. I have to get away from people. Dropping the remnants of my breakfast in the garbage bin on the outskirts of the park, I began sprinting toward my apartment.

My lungs burned, my calves ached, my head pounded as I desperately tried to get to my apartment before the levees broke. I made it back unable to gather a deep breath, knowing I wouldn't be able to jog in the foreseeable future, but before I fell apart.

That's a very good thing.

But as I sat on the couch prepared for a maelstrom of self-pity, I instead felt numb. Numb is good; numb is new.

I want to live; I need to live.

With that as inspiration, I pulled out my laptop and started writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I told my story, the story of Edward and I, the story of Jacob and I, the story I need to tell myself before I get to the next step.

Cracking my knuckles, fresh pot of coffee in hand, I committed myself to figuring myself out.

Lord help me.


	2. For What It's Worth

Author's Note: Thanks to wish_girl for putting up with my perpetual angstiness...also I want to thank the ladies on the threads over at Twilighted(dot)net for encouraging me as I continue with this pursuit.

Disclaimer: C'est pas mine.

* * *

_  
_**Chapter 1: For What It's Worth**_  
So take the photographs and still frames in your mind  
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time  
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial  
For what it's worth it was worth all the while_

* * *

I went to college for a lot of reasons. Sure, I wanted to get an education. I, of course, wanted to do better than my parents, who had pretty much given up on education on right about the same time I came around when they were at the ripe old age of nineteen.

That all made sense; it's pretty logical and a standard answer to the omnipresent "Why do you want to go to college" question every first year college student is asked. But the obvious is superficial; the obvious doesn't ask for more than the hologram on top of the mess.

For me, the main reason that I went to college was to become lost. For the first time in my life, I didn't want to be Chief Swan's Daughter. For once, I wanted to feel the relief that anonymity brings, the sweet obscurity that comes from people not knowing your name. I wanted to be "that brunette" or "the clumsy one." When I was eighteen, this is what I wanted most of all. I craved it; I lived for the pursuit of it.

I grew up in Forks, a small town in western Washington State. The _Cheers _adage held true. It truly was a place "where everyone knows your name."

This is especially true if you are the daughter of the chief of police.

I hated the small town gossips that looked forward to watching me slip, trip, tumble, and, in general, mess up. Whether I slipped or not, whether I maintained a 4.0 GPA or not, I knew that there was a façade that I had to build, that I had to implement in order to survive.

I hated feeling that the town wanted me to fail so that they could hold it against Charlie.

It's oppressive really, this sense that the Old Biddy Brigade sits behind their bay windows with bated breath waiting…just waiting for me to be less than what they perceive a Police Chief's daughter should be.

Don't get me wrong; I had great friends. I HAVE great friends but, man, when I started looking at and applying to colleges I knew I needed an escape from everything that Forks represented. So I went big.

I picked a giant school where, hopefully, no one would know my name; no one would expect me to stumble, either figuratively or metaphorically; and I could become the Bella that I wanted to be.

Who might this Bella be?

Confident

Sexy

Independent

Insouciant

Stable

Sane

Free

The challenge began with sucking it up and doing it. The academics weren't going to be that big of a deal. I'm damn smart and I've always known it. I wanted this change and to have any sort of acceptable career, I needed college, but I was hugely afraid to give up the safety and sameness by moving out of the pit known as Forks.

I had to do it, though.

So I did it and so the story began.

----------

1996

It was a stiflingly hot day when I moved into my residence hall right before I began my freshman year of college. It was one of those days when you begin sweating the second you step out of the shower. Throwing my shoulder length brown hair up in a ponytail, sliding on my favorite pair of pink Chucks, a white tank top, and a pair of denim shorts, I prepared for my day.

Before going to bed the night before I made sure all of my stuff was packed for the trip. I was a little saddened by just how little space all of my stuff required. I had my clothes, books, CDs, boom box, shoes, and sundry other items neatly piled into the bed of my truck.

After double and triple checking that everything was secure, I sat on the front step waiting for Jake to show. He volunteered to drive me to Seattle and return the truck home. I'd heard parking on campus is a bitch and, frankly, I didn't need the hassle of fighting for the five parking spots that the six thousand students with cars have to share.

Charlie said he wanted to go, but couldn't because he had to cover shifts down at the station. Renee was in Phoenix, chasing after her wanna-be sugar baby junior league baseball player. She couldn't be bothered to sacrifice the time to send me off to school.

Jake stepped in and volunteered to go on the 'grand voyage to Seattle' with me before I had a chance to beg.

I swear, that boy had an uncanny ability to sense when I needed him most.

I told him that I wanted to leave around 8am...the nearly four hour drive was going to be torturous. We were taking Monster Truck; Shimmy, my truck, tops out around fifty miles an hour and if you drove him too long at that speed, it was just like sitting on top of a trailer full of vibrators set to high, only not as fun.

I hear him approaching from probably at lest a mile away. He's riding in style today, I thought. I saw the dust cloud begin swelling around him as he got closer to the house. He looked like the devil coming to get me. The thought made me laugh; sixteen year old Jacob Black liked to think of himself as a badass. He tried to get the chicks by coming off as a badass, but I knew the truth.

Jake's just a big old goofball; on top of that he's a phenomenal friend.

As he pulled up, I chuckled to myself at his well cultivated image and frowned at the helmet perched on the back of the bike instead of on his head.

He parked his ride near the garage, looked at me, and asked if I was ready to hit the road.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

He looked at me quizzically and tried to probe for more information. He'd heard most of it before. Whenever we had this discussion, he put on his very best "good friend" hat and tried to assuage my fears.

I just couldn't talk to him about all of them. He still had a year left of high school, was a tireless optimist, and I just didn't think he'd get it.

I was eager.

I was tremulous.

I was ambitious.

I was reserved.

I was happy.

I was petrified.

All of this vacillation gave me a headache.

How would I confront, how could I utter the words, admit them out loud that I thought I'd fuck this up. That I'd have gone off to face the world, stumble, and not have the ability to recover.

How could I?

Isn't admitting fear the same as admitting defeat?

No. I was not going to go into this with my head down.

Fake it till you make it, right?

Jake, Shimmy, and I started the journey to Lander Hall with some bagels and coffee to sustain us on the journey. Driving down Highway 101, I watched Jake as he drove. He was such a focused driver; it's rare to find that in a 16-year-old boy.

His driving reflected how he lived his life. He knew what he wanted to do, the things he wanted to achieve, and he knew how it was going to happen.

I watched him attend to driving and looked at him…really looked at him. He had prettier hair than me, dammit. His slightly longer than shoulder length black hair was neatly gathered into a low ponytail. The late morning sun highlighted the subtle natural highlights that a summer spent outside riding dirtbikes and fixing cars had earned him. The rolled down truck window mussed some of the neatness but even his hair seemed to have his focus; only a few strands strayed from the ponytail.

He's really gonna make some woman a fine husband, I thought. There are just some things that are evident from a young age.

Without much fanfare and sans vehicular breakdown, we made it to campus. With a hug and a little of bittersweet teasing, Jake left after unloading all of my crap.

Ready or not, here I go.

---

By the time school kicked up again in January, I was half convinced that I had made the wrong choice.

Classes were...weird. They weren't difficult. They weren't easy. The rhythm of the courses really raised Kane with my ability to organize my thoughts.

I hated not knowing anyone. I never in my life thought those words would come out of my mouth.

I really suck at meeting people. I'm just not good at it. Having a crazy, Bible pounding, computer-hogging roommate from conservativeville didn't help, either. Sure, she meant well but staging anti Roe v. Wade protests is just not my cup of tea.

But I built my music collection; I discovered a new favorite coffee shop; I walked all over the place; and I waited for something...for this awkwardness to pass...for SOMETHING to happen to me.

...and then it did.

My favorite place to pretend to study was in the community room that separated the boys and girls wing of my floor in the residence hall. I'd logged countless hours watching the guys debate the merits of Star Wars, playing cards until all hours of the night, laughing at Beavis and Butthead, all under the guise of working on my Calculus homework while buried under my headphones.

It was one of those rare sunshiny February days when I should have been inside, but instead sat at the tables in the community room with my Madonna cranked to eleven as I idly sifted through my third semester calculus work. I was zoning out, agreeing with Madonna that "I'm not your bitch, don't lay your shit on me," when I felt a tap on my shoulder that scared the crap out of me.

Unfortunately, I'm a jumper. It's embarrassing; it's horrifying; it's the unvarnished truth. If I'm not paying attention and I get startled, it's like I have a convulsive fit, full of flailing, shaking, and shrieking.

Not cute.

After embarrassing myself with my uninhibited shock, I turned quickly so that I could share my wrath with whoever the unwitting assailant was.

I turned my head and it felt as though I stepped back from the reality and was watching, frame by frame, a movie where the girl turns in slow motion to only be confronted with the gorgeous leading man. Either that or I looked like Roger Rabbit when he first saw Jessica: Boing-g-g-g.

My mouth dropped open. He said something, but I didn't hear a word he said. I was too caught up in his absolute perfection, his utter fuckability. And that was just with the emerald eyes and the damn cleft chin and dimple on the right side of his mouth. It took me a while to move north to his rumpled bronze hair.

His mouth kept moving. I'm positive my mouth gaped open, but all I could do was stare. Stare into the depths of his eyes that seemed to know me and want to know me at the same time.

He moved to pop one of my earphones off my head and I finally heard the raspy timbre of his voice.

"You in third semester calc, too?"

"Huh?" I was still incoherent.

He pointed to my book, I reluctantly pulled my gaze from his, and I stared at it incompetently.

Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I finally squeaked out, "Yeah. It's a stupid class."

He sat down and started talking to me about the class. We talked for hours about math and music and home and dreams and partners and food and movies and pretty much anything else that came up. We talked and talked and talked. About five seconds into our chat session, I started to dream.

Dream and hope and imagine.

On this, the day I met Edward Cullen.

* * *

_And if I can't find my way  
If salvation seems worlds away  
Oh, I'll be found  
When I am lost in your eyes_

* * *

End Notes

Songs Used:  
"Good Riddance" by Green Day  
"Lost In your Eyes" by Debbie Gibson


	3. Let's Use Our Imaginations

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah  
We got one shot  
So let's use our imaginations  
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah  
You're all that I got  
So where do we go from here

I've never been particularly adept with meeting people. I hate the term shy, but tend to think that introverted is the most appropriate way to describe me. I don't dislike people. I don't dislike being around people. I just can't put a lot of effort into the process of making nice with polite company and jumping far outside my comfort with people zone. It's tiring; it's exhausting; and, frankly, it's depressing.

So there I was: Eighteen, forging my own path as an independent woman and student of the world, even if I was meeting with little perceived personal success, and along came this guy, this gorgeous, wonderful, smart, witty, supportive almost-man, crashing into my life. There was no asking; there was no politesse of the song and dance that people do before they get to know each other. He simply was there.

With the fallout of one afternoon's conversation, I was knocked out of the orbit within which I was happily miserably oblivious and thrust into a whole 'nother plane which was exciting and terrifying and tactile and demanding.

And it petrified me.

And it thrilled me.

Outside of the lifelong friends I had from Forks, he was the first guy, the first person really, who seemed to want to get to know me. He listened, he observed, hell, he even called me on my shit when I tried to feed him a line of baloney. It was amazing.

He wanted to know ME…the Bella that had hid inside for so long…the Bella who was neither Police-chief's-daughterbella nor the perfect, but not obnoxiously so, Forksian Bella.

"Whatcha doin', Bella?" Edward bounded through my open residence hall room door. He was dressed casually, in a tight fitting Pink Floyd tee and a pair of well-worn blue jeans. He looked amazing.

As per usual, it was a grey, overcast day in Seattle. Rain drizzled off and on, and the temperature hovered right around fifty degrees. It was truly a miserable day indeed.

All I wanted to do at that point was sit with my romance novel du jour and think about the man who just walked through my door.

"Meh. Not much," I noted slowly and aimlessly pointed to the pile of laundry hanging out of my closet and the stacks of books, papers, and sundry office supplies strewn on my desk. Really, I knew that those projects had to be completed fairly soon, especially the laundry, or I'd have to contemplate going commando.

Ew.

I finally glanced back his way and saw that he looked excited about something. He was bouncing back and forth, shifting his weight from one hip to the other and his eyes were all a-glimmer. Since meeting Edward, I have seen those eyes light up. I found that chips of peridot shone in his emerald irises whenever he was excited or when he was up to mischief. Today, his eyes fucking sparkled.

He grinned at me, he turned up that damned crooked smile I would sell my soul to see. The corner of the right side of his mouth tilted up and the dimple about an inch from the apex of his lips settled deeply into his cheek. Oh, he was happy and I was elated to bask in his joy.

I had known the man for three weeks and I was willing to sell my soul for him.

"So, I was wondering if you wanted to play racquetball with me."

"Ok. Sounds like fun." I responded knowing three things: I have never before in my life played racquetball; I trip over the air so sports and I have a very antagonistic relationship; and I was willing to suffer untold humiliation in order to spend time with this man.

It had been like that since he bumped into me three short weeks ago. I would be puttering aimlessly around the residence hall and he'd pop into the picture and divine some creative, interesting thing to keep the tedium from rolling in.

I had no clue how to handle this; I wanted to embrace it and go with the flow. I am not a go with the flow kind of girl. I want to, instead, focus on the why and the how and the when is this all going to fall apart on me because I needed to arm myself for the loss of this man.

All this after three weeks.

I should have known that I was screwed; that there was no way that I was going to let this man out of my clutches.

Edward and I skipped over to the rec center on campus and checked in for our assigned court time.

"So, Bella, when you play, do you play by the rules or do you make the rules up as you go along?"

"Um, well, I've played once and I played by the rules then. It was for high school gym class so I kinda had to go with the rules." That's a lie. I was all about the rules. Rules are safe, but I was trying to break out and be what he wanted me to be.

Screw the rules.

"How do you play?"

His rule summary: Hit the ball as hard as possible and don't get hit by the ball because that shit hurt…those were his words, not mine.

And so we played and I tripped and stumbled and occasionally made contact with the small rubber projectile. And he made me laugh. He'd tell silly stories about his friends back home and playing shirtless football in the snow. Oh, how he made my heart sing. At one point in the game, my convulsive chortling drew a crowd in the observationny deck area above the courts. I'm sure I looked a fine mess: red and sweaty, collapsed in a heap on the hardwood floor, laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

But for the first time I could breathe.

When I finally gathered myself enough to contemplate standing, our hour was up. He reached out to take my hand and help me up. I grinned at him, gave him my hand, and pulled him down. On his way down, he managed to stop himself before he landed on top of me in a hotter than hell kind of push up. He flexed his arms, leaned his head down, and kissed me on the nose.

"You're fun." He told me. The smile on his face rang true in his eyes.

Me? Fun.

I'd been a lot of things in my days, but I don't recall fun ever being one of them.

I glowed. That stupid little kiss shifted something inside of me. Maybe it was the first touches of arousal, perhaps it was the stirrings of pride, and possibly it was the spark that began to set me free.

But for him, with him, I could breathe. I could be.

And I liked the person I was becoming.

You're asking me will my love grow,  
I don't know, I don't know.  
Stick around, and it may show,  
But I don't know, I don't know


	4. Soaring So Rhythmically

O pull on the rein and haul me in back to the start  
Rebirthed in ecstasy with cherubim and seraphim  
When I was falling soaring so rhythmically  
Falling soaring falling for you so completely

The concept of intimacy is one frightening bitch.

Who do you let near?

When do you let boundaries tumble?

How do you do it so you don't freak yourself out?

What does real intimacy look like?

Can these demonstrations be explored without freaking others out?

Why? How? What? When? Who?

I suppose I could say that in my life, I have developed a pretty well entrenched sense of boundaries. I keep people out for a long time. Not wanting to get hurt, I keep them outside the pre-determined line. Upon proving themselves, I then deign to grant them entry.

This is how the process usually works; there are, naturally, few with whom I have become emotionally intimate. With these people, I have been able to, more or less, establish the ground rules on which our relationships have been developed.

True, this sounds cold. To an extent, maybe it is cold…and impersonal…and overly analytical.

Yet it's my truth.

I've never been comfortable sharing the softer part of myself with others. It's easier to be in control of myself, of others…or at least be in control of the access that others have to the parts of me that matter.

This system has worked with everyone that I have met in my life.

Everyone: family, friends, and even lovers.

Everyone, that is, except Edward.

In pushing entrance to my closed little world, he demanded a level of closeness that I had never dealt with before in my life. He'd brush, stroke, grasp, clutch, embrace; it freaked me the hell out.

I loved it.

I hated it.

It terrified the living shit out of me.

I had to deal with the idea of learning about intimacy. The real, emotional intimacy shared between two people on equal terms…at least, on more equal terms than I had previously allowed.

And like with so many parts of my life with Edward, I stumbled, I freaked out, I retreated, I surged forward.

Mostly though, I reveled.

With him in my life, the semester passed in a blur. It was a swirl of Edward popping in, changing how I viewed my life, and, as a result, altering my perception of not only myself but my reality as well.

I didn't date in high school. I didn't have the time; didn't make the time; and was too scared of the damage that the townie boys could do to me.

But I wanted to date.

I wanted someone to want me for, well, me. This I got from Edward.

We didn't date, we weren't dating or really anything else for that matter, but he became a steady presence in my life. I became his friend; he became the dearest and most precious part of my life.

Whenever he'd knock at my door or come bounding across the cafeteria, I'd drop everything I was doing to play with him.

It was late morning on an unusually sunny Saturday in March, I was sitting in the campus cafeteria munching on waffles with strawberries and whipped cream and drinking my Diet Coke while trying to get caught up on my French reading. Stupid Colette was kicking my ass and my excursions with Edward weren't helping me focus at all. I had a paper to write discussing the feminine within the context of _La Maison de Claudine_, but I'd yet to finish the first half of the novel, let alone delve into story-wide thematic arcs.

And so I read on, consulting my dictionary often, praying that I was comprehending the text that I should have tackled a couple of weeks ago. Somewhere between reading, "_Moi, je serai marin_!" and "_Moi, je serai marin, et dans mes voyages…" _I began to lose my focus. I started mashing what was left of my cold waffles and strawberries together into an unappealing glob while scraping the scant remnants of whipped cream that had spilled onto the plate with my fork and licking at the fork to clean it.

I was zoning out, probably earning some suspicious glances from others sitting near me for the wafflemash crime I was committing, but that didn't matter. I simply liked the idea of not thinking; it was appealing. I didn't think about what I deserved, what I should be doing, where I might be headed, or anything else life altering. I thought a little about how I might enjoy the sunshine but then remembered that I had run out of sunscreen and hadn't yet made it to the local Walgreen's to pick up my tube of SPF 75. Unfortunately, that limited my options unless I wanted to get a lovely little sunburn.

Committed to spending my sunny day in my room finishing up my Colette, I cleared off my tray, packed up my book, and headed back to my room. As I was crossing University Avenue, I heard someone yelling my name from off in the distance. Well, I heard a familiar sounding voice hollering for a Bella. Not wanting to assume that it was me and turn around looking like an eager puppy waiting for her ball, I kept on my course.

I got to the front of the building, realized that I hadn't grabbed my keys before I left the cafeteria, and then I sat downs on the bench outside my building and began to dig through my backpack because, of course, the keys had settled to the wasteland on the bottom of the bag.

Sorting through change and lip-gloss and pens and myriad other detritus, I was surprised to suddenly sense someone sitting next to me.

"You, lady, are a difficult one to wrangle." Edward laughed.

For him, though, I knew this to be the polar opposite. I wanted to spend as much time as was humanly possible near him, around him, with him. He had no real difficulty, ever, wrangling me.

Desperate? Perhaps it was.

Yet it was my truth.

"What's the plan?" He asked.

You are my plan, I nearly said.

"Just finished my work for the week," I lied. "What are you up to today?"

He shrugged, looked around at the buildings in the vicinity, and, after nearly an entire minute had passed, contributed, "Not too much. Though I'd grab a friend and play some games."

My brain went wild. "Ooooh! Grab me! Please, grab me!" My subconscious pleaded, begged, demanded.

"So, wanna?"

Fuck. Yes, I do!

"What games are you thinking about playing?" Play the game _Edward Loves Bella_. I could get down with that game. That game I could play forever.

"How 'bout we grab some ice cream and then play some Nine Ball?"

"What's that?" I inquired.

"Schwaaaa? You don't know Nine Ball?" He was clearly appalled.

I shrugged, not wanting to make eye contact. I hated not knowing how to do stuff. I felt lacking, that I was missing some vital piece of belonging. I felt that I had failed.

"So do you wanna learn?" He asked.

I looked up at him, not sure if I wanted to be subjected to this kind of humiliation.

I was going to suck. I knew this. Pending suckage was a certainty.

But I was going to get to spend time with him. a large block of one-on-one time. The thought of having this opportunity filled me with a sense of hope, a feeling of wholeness that I knew I couldn't conceivably turn it down.

Eve if I would inevitably embarrass myself.

Because I would.

If I got to be with him, I'd sacrifice even the few shreds of dignity I desperately clung to for the opportunity to be.

To be with him.

"All right, Miss Bliss. Ready to go in half an hour?" I nodded in response and he bounded away, ready to plan my downfall.

I just kept on nodding and tried to figure out how I'd manage this imminent fiasco. Visions of injuring myself, unmanning him with errant stick maneuvers, and being on the receiving end of patronizing giggles ran through my head.

Trying to block out the doom I was expecting, I instead tried to focus on what I would wear that afternoon. I grabbed my new pair of Levis, the pair that thankfully hid the ravages that the typical 'freshman fifteen and then some' had dealt me. Trying to figure out what top I'd wear, I shrugged out of the Clinton/Gore tee I was sporting and sighed when I looked at my tits.

I may have gained weight, but none of it had landed north of my ribcage or south of my shoulders. Why couldn't I be one of those girls who gets boobs when she gets fat?

It's an injustice.

Damn you, genetics.

I finally settled on a simple blue babydoll that my friend Alice promised "would do wonders for the girls."

Throwing on my pink Chucks, I grabbed my wallet and headed to his room.

Then I glanced at the watch I had on my wrist.

Twenty minutes to go before we were supposed to meet.

Shit.

Not cool, Bella. Not cool.

I skulked back to my room, ready to twiddle my thumbs until the appointed hour.

Sighing, I felt the ball of anticipation and excitement build from faint tendrils in my stomach and slowly, steadily spread through my body to my fingertips. It seemed as if I were The Beast during his transformation: all light and energy and desperation shooting forth from everywhere.

It was miserable.

It was wonderful.

It was only twenty fucking minutes!

I paced, I drew, I paced, I shredded and twisted paper and I finally heard a knock at my door.

The knock startled me off of the chair I had perched upon when I had decided to occupy myself with coloring books in order to tamp down the mania. I landed solidly on my butt, falling solidly onto a melée of paper, crayons, and the remnants of my craft box.

Picking myself up off the floor, leaving the mess behind, my hands shook as I approached the door.

I breathed a few deep breaths, jumped up and down a couple of times as I stood behind the door, all as a means to expel some of this nervous-excited energy that was leaping from every pore.

Opening, the door, I tilted my head to the side, smiled, and said hello. As I did this, I just basked in his beauty, in his abundant energy, and felt ecstatic to be alive. He returned my greeting, stepped forward, and clasped me in his embrace.

He reached his arms around my waist, pulled me into him until we were touching from shoulder to toe and it felt as though I was breathing him in. My nose fit in the crook of his neck and I smelled his clean, slightly soapy, scent. I could have stood there, eyes closed, for all time.

I nearly whimpered.

I almost cried.

And as the tears threatened, he upped his game. He pulled me closer, not uncomfortably so, but he brought me securely, safely, reassuringly into him. I grasped the fabric on the back of his shirt, wanting to reach underneath to feel the strength of him underneath the tee shirt, but I hesitated to return the embrace; I didn't know what my place was.

Would I appear too eager?

Would I seem needy?

How do I cling to him without showing him everything that I had inside my heart that I wasn't ready to share?

I slowly smoothed the fabric from my fingers and returned the hug, trying to mirror the strength, the fondness, the intimacy of his embrace. As I did, he quietly sighed, exhaling into the sensitive crook of my neck.

Tingles of sensation exploded from that tiny corner of my neck. Goosebumps popped all over my arms and I just wanted him to do it again and again and again. I had no clue what was going on, but I did know that I loved it.

Quietly, he asked, "Are you ready to go?"

As disoriented as I was, I nearly missed the question, but I caught it, if barely. "Yeah," I sighed, unwilling to break contact.

He slowly detached from my clutches, reached for my hand, and, even though I still was dazzled, we headed off for the student center.

He picked a pool table in the back of the hall, one fairly secluded from the dartboards and video games, yet close to the jukebox. The corner we landed in was dimly lit with two wall sconces providing us with the bare minimum of yellow light necessary to make our path and see the tables. The pool table was well worn, with slightly scuffed felt and about a dozen well used blue chalk cubes scattered along the edge of the table.

Putting me in charge of picking 'kick ass tunes,' he went in search of the balls and a couple of cue sticks that would do the job for our game. I glanced around the room, noting the well used video games ranging from pinball to Pac Man to Bust A Move to some space invader-y alien shoot-em-up adventure that looked unreasonably complicated. Across from the video games was the cashier who had access to the alcohol and the balls for pool as well as the darts for the dartboard. He was standing over by the dreadlocked student worker when I turned to the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner of the room.

The red and white fluorescent glow of the jukebox beckoned me hoping to find at least a couple of albums that fell into the 'kick ass' category, I flipped through the pages of music. Ace of Base, Joan Osborne, Celine Dion, Metallica, Pearl Jam, REM, Bon Jovi all made appearances in the music troves at the Student Center. Amidst the crapola tunes, I found some gems, finally settling on some Pink Floyd, Red Hot Chili Peppers, REM, and Pearl Jam. Finishing my selections, Edward returned to the table just as I turned away from the music.

The haunting strains of _Comfortably Numb_ began filling the hall as I walked the short distance to where he stood, eyes closed, listening to Gilmour sing and Waters play. I knew he was a sucker for the Floyd and I loved watching him appreciate music. He was at peace, calm and reflective; a direct contrast to his usual freneticism. Usually he was Tigger, come to life, bounding to and fro, exhausting me with his boundless energy and enthusiasm. In the presence of great music, all of the restless energy was redirected onto the music and a certain serenity crossed his visage.

It was a glorious thing to watch.

Walking up to him, I basked in his assured calmness for a couple of minutes and, not wanting the moment to get too deep, I poked him in the side and snickered as I bounced away to safety.

"Troublemaker."

I shrugged, with a smirk decorating my lips, "I guess I had to start sometime."

He winked and asked, "Ready?"

I nodded and he tossed me a cue stick.

"You wanna break?"

"Sure." Walking to the pool table, I glanced at the diamond of balls in front of me. He'd briefed me on the rules of the game and so I generally had a clue what I should be doing. Taking aim, I managed to make contact with the cue ball and a little of the aged felt right before I slammed into the cue ball. The white ball hopped a couple of times and smashed ineffectually into the pyramid of balls, sending a couple of the outliers away from the cluster, but not with any great distance.

I tilted my head to the side, glared at the uncooperative orbs, shrugged, and then heard his snicker. "Excuse me?"

He paused and had the courtesy to look at least a little embarrassed. "My turn," he noted. He bent slightly at the hip, his legs spread slightly apart, and took aim at the balls with the stick. While he was doing this, I watched his ass as he shifted his weight, ever so slightly, from hip to hip in time with _Alive_, which wailed from the jukebox.

I didn't know that I could like Vedder more than I already did. As Eddie inspired my Eddie to move and sway to the rhythm of his guitar, I was awed.

I watched as he moved again, his bottom flexing as he shifted his legs to take his shot and again as he stood to turn to me.

"Did you see how I did that?"

I sure the hell did. I simply nodded as I brushed my thumb across my mouth to make sure I wasn't drooling.

Pretty sure he was taking pity on me, it was again my turn to go. I sidled up to the weathered wood and felt and tried to figure out where next to take aim. I sought out the 1 ball, which still needed to go in and I found it, precariously close to a pocket. Stalking the edge of the table, I located the cue ball and tried to figure out how I could make the two entities collide productively.

As I was thinking, I heard a voice ask from the jukebox if I needed any help. I made a noncommittal sound and went back to my balls. They looked back at me mockingly so I closed my eyes and took my shot.

I biffed, leaving a barely visible divot in the felt and heard a small, repressed snicker to my side. "Shut it, bucko," I warned. "I told you I suck at this."

"Just ask if you want help. That's all. See, had you hit the ball at this angle," he demonstrated using his cue, "the trajectory would have propelled the ball to the edge here and the subsequent force would have led the cue ball to strike the 1 ball hard enough to get into the pocket here."

Oh crap. I hate physics. I get it, I've taken it, but Physics just fucking sucks. Yet here I was watching him animatedly discuss the relative trajectory of pool balls, befuddled by his passion for the properties that govern successful play of this game.

I turned the table over to him and vowed to actually figure out what the hell to do next. I watched as he set his long, saxophonist's fingers, ushered the cue stick between them and adjusted his grip on the shaft of the stick. I watched the determination in his face amble through to he play of muscles in his forearm as he set the stick, adjusted the angle, and then thrust the cue forward to collide with the white ball.

Holy Christ, he was sexy.

He managed to drop the first five balls in succession before scratching out. Determined to hit something, anything on this turn, I walked to the table and perused my options. Four balls and the cue ball remained on the table. In theory, I understood how to get the next ball in, it would only take a little maneuvering. So I spread my legs, and began to place the cue in the angle that would work. Drawing the stick back to take aim, I felt someone stand between my spread legs and grab my waist.

"Ok, I thought I'd lend a hand," he commented.

My brain shut down.

Placing his hand securely on my stomach as I tried not to think of the extra fullness there, he pulled me toward him. He moved his left hand from my stomach to adjust the way that my fingers were tented for the cue and then guided it back to my abdomen. He took his right hand and used it to guide the cue in the most appropriate direction.

"Ok," he whispered in my ear. "I think you've got it." He held me tight and supported my movements as I made my stroke. "Keep it steady, be smooth, and don't forget who's boss."

Jesus. He was going to kill me.

His breath on my neck was shooting forth ripples of sensation everywhere. I felt electric, alive, and didn't give a tinker's damn what was going on with the pool game. I prayed for him to keep breathing on me, I wanted him to lick my neck, I needed him to bite my ear. I ached for something, a feeling I'd never thought of before, a sensation that kept me glued to him and overrode any concerns that I had about my less than perfect weight.

I played my turn. I think I got a couple of balls in before I misfired again. There's only so much a body can take before any attempts at composure are spent.

He stayed with me through all of my turns, holding me close, encouraging me, and driving me batshit crazy murmuring directions and instructions and stupid Edward-isms all the while.

It was finally his turn at the table and I saw three balls left in play. As he released his hold on me, I stumbled slightly and was rewarded when he secured me by grasping my sides. When he was convinced I could stand erect successfully, he withdrew and played his turn.

We played a few more rounds. I'm not entirely sure how many rounds we ended up completing. Every time I played, he would either guide my actions from behind while explaining the related physics or he would coach from across the table, engaged and supportive and wonderful.

When he took his turns. I simply watched him. I watched him move and laugh and think and analyze. He'd move his head to the side as he contemplated the more difficult shots, the tendons in his neck flexing as he swallowed and tensed while making his assessment. I stared as the vein in his forehead protruded ever so slightly as he determined which move to make. He'd glance my way from time to time in the midst of his play, a confident smirk on his lips, and I did my best to play down my obsession with watching him.

My obsession with him.

I tried to appear cool, that I was watching him so intently so as to mimic his moves, his approach to the game.

I was really trying to drink up every moment that I had with him, knowing that these times together would be fleeting; nothing this sweet ever could last. I hadn't earned it; I didn't deserve it.

And we played on and on, chatting about nothingness and everything.

I told him about me. I was honest, I was candid, I was brutal.

And he listened.

And he was interested.

And I was terrified.

Bored with pool, we moved on to ice cream and chitchat on the outdoor terrace of the student center. Sitting on the edge of the pier, we took off our shoes and dangled our feet in the frigid water, leaning against each other and rambling on and on as we lapped at our orange custard chocolate chip.

He said, "Tell me a story."

He wanted to hear my story. No one really ever wanted to hear my story; maybe I never let anyone want to hear it.

Yet he did.

So I told him what I could. I told him what I wasn't embarrassed to share and made up the rest. I needed to be interesting, so I created bits and pieces of my history to fill in the gaps. I molded the picture of myself into someone I wanted to be; that I was sure he would want.

As the ducks floated near our dancing feet, we simply were. I could be silent with him; I was never really silent, especially when I was unsure or scared or approaching the unknown. I was barreling head first into all three. Yet something in me let me have quiet of moments as my head rested softly on his shoulder and his head atop mine.

It was perfect.

I let myself have a few minutes of perfection knowing that somehow, someway, I was going to tarnish it.

Maybe I already had.

The sun began setting and we both headed back to the residence hall. He led me back to my room and he grabbed my around the waist, hauling me toward him into yet another hug.

This man had touched me more in one day than I had ever been touched before in my life. I didn't know what to do with all of this closeness, with this intimacy. My brain was overloaded, my body was overwhelmed.

I was so in love with him.

"You're the best," he confessed as he squeezed me with comforting strength.

I couldn't speak, but nodded slowly.

Kissing me in the middle of the forehead, he bounded off toward his end of the hall.

When I finally collected myself enough to gain entry to my room, images of this day ran through my mind. This day had changed my heart, had altered my mind. This silly, stupid, wonderful day had just become the single most important moment of my life.

I slowly made my way to my bed and as I walked, it became more and more difficult to breathe. I was so happy. I was so blindingly, paralytically ecstatic. I knew that it would disappear like grains of sand.

That happiness didn't belong to me.

How could it?

As my breathing became more and more labored, my thoughts became equally frantic. I wanted him, I needed him, I loved him.

I would destroy this. I would break myself. I was convinced that I didn't have the capacity to build or maintain this love, to earn his love.

And it shattered me.

My pretenses of strength, of resiliency collapsed under the conviction of my deficiencies.

Sobs coursed through my body in waves; I fell onto the bed in the fetal position clutching my pillow to my chest as I wailed, wetting the pillow with my grief and my fear. I tried to center myself, to pull myself out of my misery, to let myself have this perfect day.

Eventually I did, but the day was still slightly tarnished.

Even with the slight mar on its finish, it was still the best day.

I wish today was just like every other day  
'Cause today has been the best day  
Everything I ever dreamed


	5. Put My Heart In Its Recipe

* * *

I made wine from the lilac tree  
Put my heart in its recipe  
It makes me see what I want to see  
And be what I want to be

* * *

Touching. Oh the dilemma that can be caused with the notion of touching.

My people aren't touchers. We aren't cuddlers or huggers; I can't recall my mother softly brushing hair out of my face or embraced me in her arms; my father sure as hell never reassuringly held my hand or pulled me, protectively, into his side. It is not part of our culture.

So, occasionally I'm seen as frigid or off-putting or distant simply because I don't sprint to embrace those around me. I don't consider it to be that big of a deal. I can be plenty affectionate to those I truly care about, it's just that I have a pretty well-established sense of personal boundaries and there has to be a damn strong connection before those walls begin to crack.

I like to think of it as a strongly defined sense of self-preservation.

And, hell, I can fist bump, pat backs, and make pretty much any non-commital kind of touching there is. But the significant stuff, the moments that say, "I'm here," are really tough for me to suck it up and forge ahead with. They're scary. On one hand, making too broad of a gesture can put people off due to infringing upon their own set of boundaries; on the other hand, standing at too great a distance can shove them away as easily.

There's no middle ground.

So, imagine that this person who can't figure out how to make contact with others is confronted with the touchiest toucher ever met.

Freakout city.

Edward, well, he'd hold my hand going to the dining hall; he'd hug me when we met and before he departed; he'd play with my hair from time to time; he'd give impromptu backrubs if the mood struck him.

It drove me crazy. I wanted to reciprocate, I longed to have the same ease with regards to touching that he did, but whenever I tried, there was this forcefield that went up around me, keeping all limbs within a fixed proximity to my torso.

The telephone ads mocked me: Reach out and touch someone.

Bullshit. If only it were that easy.

It's more like this: Breathe deeply, loosen the shoulders, squash the butterflies, raise arm, chasten the self-doubts, move toward victim, encounter forcefield, panic, slow breathing again, slam into forcefield once more, debate options, give up and eventually bump fist with victim.

And so this was my dilemma as my relationship with Edward progressed: How does that comfort with contact get established? When would I stop feeling queasy every time I thought of initiating real touch?

* * *

"What's your favorite restaurant?"

It was a couple of weeks after I visited Crazy Weepy Land. Initially, I had tried to keep my distance from him, knowing that I was developing a much too intense connection with him and recognizing that I needed distance in order to be safe.

I tried. The funny thing is, relationships take at least two people and if one of those people isn't cooperating with the plan for space and safety and no tears, it certainly fucks the scheme to hell.

He just kept popping in to my life. Coffee, study, shenanigans with his band mates. You name it, he had coerced me into it. I kicked myself in the ass every time I succumbed to one of his requests for company.

Because I was the best. Ask him and he'd tell you, "Bella, she's the best."

I melted. Hell, I knew that I wasn't the best at, well, anything really. I was passably mediocre at a lot of stuff and reasonably sufficient at a whole ghost of others. But the best? Who? Certainly not this girl.

"Hmmm?" I had been attempting to work on my French presentation. I kept getting my cognates mixed up and was focused on not sounding like an American trying to speak French.

"Food. Where's your favorite place to eat?"

"Um, I dunno. If I had to pick one, it's probably be Taco Bell." Charlie wasn't the adventurous sort when it came to fine dining. It was either drive through Mickey D's, Taco Bell, or dinner courtesy of me back in Forks.

"Pfft. That is not real food."

I raised my eyebrow at him. "Ok then, pray tell: What is real food?"

"C'mon. Let me show you."

I sighed and put up a nominal resistance. Hell, I wouldn't want to appear easy or overeager regardless of the amount of truth there was within those descriptors. I hastily shoved my books in my Jansport, tossed the weighty mess onto my bed, and joined him as he waited by the elevator.

He took me to this small Italian restaurant that was about a block away from our residence hall. It had perfect Italian restaurant ambiance: dark, private seating, with candlelight and soft instrumental music piped in. The yeasty scent of the baking sourdough bread and the aroma of the marinara sauce was rich on my tongue even before we sat down.

Right after we were seated, he ordered up a pitcher of sangria, broke open the fresh, hot, crusty sourdough bread that the waitress delivered, and ordered a couple of different dishes.

"Really? You're ordering for me?" I chided. "How 1950s of you." I rolled my eyes for effect. I took a piece of the bread and a pat of butter, smearing it onto the piping hot fluff before taking a bite and savoring the slightly sour, buttery, salty yeastiness that enveloped my tongue. I could live on this.

"Trust me," he demanded, "I know what I'm doing." He poured both of us a glass of the dark red beverage which seemed to have fruit floating about amongst the ice cubes. I eyed my glass suspiciously.

"What is this, exactly?"

"A little wine, a little fruit, a little juice. It's tasty."

I hesitated for minute. It looked good, smelled good, and he seemed to be enjoying it. While I'd never had it before, my bigger concern was that I'd never had alcohol before, didn't know exactly how I'd react to the wine, and, hell, Charlie would end up finding out one way or the other. I had shit for luck that way. "Hello, eighteen, cops daughter," I circled my hand over my head for emphasis. I cringed when I realized what I was doing. Charlie did the same thing whenever he thought I was talking out of my ass.

"Live a little. It's mostly juice, anyway." I was so easily swayed.

I took a hesitant sip and loved it. Tangy and sweet and crunchy. Sangria and I were gonna be friends. Halfway through my second glass of the fruity beverage, the waitress appeared with our food. He'd ordered cheese and spinach stuffed manicotti with a cheese sauce, some mushroom ravioli, spinach pasta with a plain marinara sauce, and a plate of lasagna. It was enough food for a whole army of college boys.

The server deposited a large plate in front of each of us, winked at Edward, and I'm pretty sure she slipped him her phone number before flipping her hair and sauntering away, twitching her ass a little for Edward's benefit. Motioning for me to scoop away at will, I grabbed a couple of squares of ravioli, a tube of the manicotti, and a small hunk of the green spaghetti. I've never been a huge fan of mushroom ravioli and while this was edible, I was glad to have some other options. The spinach pasta was tasty and simple. The manicotti, however, owned my soul.

I was moaning away, savoring my way through two rich tubes of cheese stuffed pasta and finally looked up to thank him for introducing me to this place, Paisan's. Flicking my gaze up to meet his face, I saw that he was enjoying the chunk of lasagna as much as I was my ravioli. Pouring myself a fourth glass of sangria, I realized that he must have had a second pitcher brought around when I was obsessing over my cheese. I sipped and watched him eat.

After a few minutes of food porn, no one should be allowed to be that sexy while eating, he looked up and found me staring. I'd finished four glasses of sangria and was working on my fifth; feeling no shame, I ogled and leered and giggled inwardly. He chuckled at my obviousness and then threw me for a loop.

"Tell me a story."

I hate this question. I don't have a story. Groaning out loud from frustration, I tried to figure out how to get out of enforced tale sharing.

"Everyone has a story, Bells. Everyone."

I looked up, startled by his ability to read my mind. Things spun a little as I bounced my head up to meet his eyes and I asked, "How did you figure out what I was thinking?"`

"Said it out loud, you did."

"Oh, um, yeah," I tried to fill the silence with whatever I could that wasn't actual words. "I don't know that I have anything interesting to say." I shrugged.

"Of course you do, Bells." He tilted his head ever so slightly to the right and smiled at me reassuringly. My hands were in my lap as I did not want him to see the agitated hand wringing going on beneath the tablecloth.

I looked at him pleadingly. Please don't make me do this, I begged with my eyes. I can't. I don't know how. I will fail.

"Tell me something real. Tell me something true."

I breathed. Deeply and uncertainly, I inhaled. "Madonna saved my life."

"Ok...." He tilted his head to the other side and waited for me to explain.

"Oh. It's no big deal. I mean...I was just really lonely in high school and listening to her made me less lonely. Kind of felt like a kindred spirit." I shrugged and waited. Waited for censure, waited for gigglesnorts, waited for anything to tell me to shut the fuck up...and do it now.

He just waited. It was weird. He simply kept watching me, silently encouraging me to elaborate and share a bit of myself with him. He appeared to want me to drop the pretense.

What's life without the pretense? I lived in a land of make believe; a land of my own creation most days. It's what kept me safe.

Yet he said, without the power of words, "Go ahead. Try."

And I did. I tried. The fruity wine helped immensely. Loose lips and all that. I also knew that my ship had sunk for him loooong ago; these few words certainly wouldn't be my demise.

"So, once upon a time there was a girl who was growing up in a small, rainy, secluded town." I started my story. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't glamorous, it wasn't well constructed, but it was my own.

"She was alone more often than not. Even when people were around, it was hard for her to connect with anyone. But she had her music." I glanced up at his face. All he was doing was nodding and visually cuing me to continue. "And then one day, a tough day, a trying day when the sky certainly seemed to be falling, she stumbled on to some music that just made her feel it was ok to be herself."

I took a deep breath, knowing that I sounded like a loon. Oh hell, this whole track in and of itself was ridiculous. Telling a "Once upon a time" tale because I can't manage to string together a story was just asinine and certainly no way to impress a boy. Yet I kept on with my tale.

"I know, it seems silly. But the girl had just dealt with idiots in her high school panning her for, basically, being herself and then she was just inspired to, at least mentally, tell them to fuck off. That's what Madonna did for her. She gave her the courage to attempt to be herself."

Finishing, I brought my thumb to my mouth and started chewing on the cuticle. It's a gross habit, I know, but it's my nervous tick and right then, at that moment, I was the most nervous that I had ever been. In my life. I was working up the courage to look up at him, to see what kind of censure would be in his eyes, but I just couldn't manage it. My stomach was pitching like a boat in the middle of a hurricane and I was worried that I was going to have to dash to the bathroom to get things to settle down. On top of this, my brain was trying to work the various angles in order for me to regain some of my cool points. But there was no angle good enough.

In the midst of this flurry of panic, worry, and angst, I felt a body nudge my left side. Pushing me over a bit from my seat in the center of the bench, he sat beside me. "Look at me," he said. So I did. I looked up into his gold flecked green eyes and saw heart. Kindness and soul and something else that I couldn't quite place.

"You're wonderful." He stated. Simply, clearly, and authoritatively.

Me, I just stared. My brain hadn't quite finished with the frenzy of panic from five seconds before and what do you say to someone who says something like that? _Thanks? _

I kept my face trained on his and he moved closer to me, not weirdly so, but enough to gently, sweetly press his lips to mine. My first kiss. In the middle of an Italian restaurant. With a man who I thought hung the moon.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras  
Il me parle tout bas,  
Je vois la vie en rose.

* * *


End file.
